


Higher Learning

by The_Librarian



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cerebro, Child Abuse, Coming Out, For Science!, Gen, How I'd reboot the X-Men, Hunting mutants, Marvel Universe, Military Experiments, Mutant Hate, Mutant Powers, Mutant Rights, Telepathy, Ultimate X-Men done my way, When they were young, X-Men First Class References (kinda), You were expecting someone else?, listening in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1726652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Librarian/pseuds/The_Librarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the not too distant future, mankind is coming to terms with the emergence of mutants: people born with abilities that set them apart from the rest of humanity. Some look on this new sub-species with hatred and fear. Others embrace it as an evolutionary leap forward. But who are the faces behind the speculation? Who are these super-powered individuals who hold the future in their hands? And, above all, what can they do?</p><p>[AKA how I would have done Ultimate X-Men]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Common Ground

**Author's Note:**

> For some unaccountable reason that may or may not have something to do with a certain movie I watched last weekend, I have X-Men stuck in my head. More specifically, a notion I've had for a while about how I'd go about rebooting the X-Men, if I ever had the chance. Whether I'll go through with making this a whole story, I don't know but I've written a fair bit that I'd like to get out there.
> 
> A few notes before we begin:
> 
> * Ages have been well and truly mucked about with, on the principle that if First Class can make Alex the older Summers, so can I
> 
> * Scott's powers are normally 'emit beams of concussive force' but I've deliberately changed that to move his powers closer to Alex's. Explanations to follow, eventually

He knocked gently, caught between wanting her to hear and not. At first, no one answered and he half made up his mind to forget . . . whatever it was he was actually trying to do and leave. He had to admit that he wasn’t entirely sure why he was there. It was just that . . . no one should be stuck alone in their room on their first day and none of the others seemed interested in making the effort, so . . .

 

“Wh-who is it?”

The response, when it finally came, was as tentative as his knock had been. He stepped a little closer to the door. “It’s me . . .er, Scott. I . . . I came up to see if you wanted to . . . I dunno . . . see the rest of the mansion. Um . . .”

“Ah . . . just a . . . just a minute.” A few seconds went by, nowhere close to a minute. “O-ok. Ah . . . oh, come in.”

 

The girl who had arrived with the Professor that morning was standing by the bed, restlessly tugging the covers this way and that. She was still wearing the baggy green jumper that almost swallowed her up. At first she didn’t acknowledge him, her attention absorbed by the seemingly pointless task of rearranging an already near-perfectly folded blanket. After a moment though, she looked up – and immediately down at her feet, her cheeks flaring bright red.

“Hello,” Scott said, hovering on the threshold, and promptly ran out of things to say.

“Hello,” she replied, eyes flicking up again, fingers fiddling non-stop with the sheets.

“Um. Is something wrong with that?”

She blinked at him blankly. “With what?”

“The bed.”

“Oh! No! Err . . .well . . . yes . . .” Frowning, she patted the blanket. “Does this look straight to you?”

 

Scott came round so that he could get a better look. “More or less,” he concluded, “About as straight as it’ll go.”

“Oh.” This was obviously disappointing. “It _feels_ like it should go straighter.” Abruptly, the embarrassment flooded back into her face, as though she had suddenly remembered how she was supposed to be reacting to him. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry – this is so rude – you’re Scott right? I’m Jean.” She thrust her hand out awkwardly, a forced, mechanical gesture.

“I know.” He took it politely and shook, trying not to wince when she gripped it way too tightly. He must have let something slip though, because she whipped her hand away as if scolded – or afraid she had scolded him.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . ah . . .” Trailing away helplessly, she drifted over to the dressing table and began rearranging the things laid out on it. “I’m, err, a bit wound up I guess – moving in and everything, coming away from home and . . . not that this place isn’t great and . . . but . . . it’s a bit overwhelming.”

“I know what you mean,” Scott agreed, a second too late. He had been distracted by the way she was describing a near-perfect circle with lipsticks and nail-polish bottles. Jean caught him staring almost at once and froze, nervously twitching her hand away to push a hairbrush even more precisely into line with the edge of the table.

 

It was Scott’s turn to be embarrassed and he tore his eyes back to her face which, he noticed, was spattered with freckles and in danger of being lost behind her hair. “So . . .” he began, trying to avoid an awkward silence, “You’re a . . uh . . . telepath, right? Like the Professor?”

>>Like the Professor<<

“Ow!” The words exploded into his head and he only just caught onto the bed in time to stop himself winding up on the floor.

“OhmyGod, I’m sorry!” Jean dashed over as the room gradually stopped pulsing in and out. “I didn’t mean to . . . I only . . . I’m sorry!”

“It’s ok,” he assured her unsteadily, “The Professor does it sometimes, too, when he’s angry . . . I guess it’s like shouting when you don’t mean to.”

“I know, I know, I’m usually more careful . . . the Professor says I don’t know my own strength, you see, but when I’m nervous –”

“I get it, honestly.” He had the horrible feeling that if he said nothing, she would keep babbling until the words all blurred together. “I guess with a power like that, being here – at the school – it’ll help you . . .”

 

He tried desperately to think of something that wasn’t ‘avoid frying people’s heads when you’re stressed’ but she beat him to the punch. “Oh, that’s not the problem! I’m usually ok, well, except in crowds – no, it’s the other thing, that’s why I’m here.”

“Other thing?”

She nodded and glanced round. Fixing back on the dressing table, she stared at it hard for a second then screwed her eyes tight shut. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the hairbrush began to rattle against the glass table-top, drummed violently up and down and finally lifted clean into the air. It wobbled across the room towards them, gliding to a halt just in front of Jean.

 

“Wow.”

Looking sideways shyly, she found Scott’s mouth hanging open. She blushed profusely and let the hairbrush drop into her hand.

“That’s amazing,” Scott told her, “Telekinesis, right?”

“Yeah . . . it’s . . . amazing.” She couldn’t have sounded less convinced of that if she had tried. Still unable to keep her hands still, she started turning the brush end over end. “Amazing.”

“Except . . . not really,” he suggested carefully.

“Oh, it is. It’s just . . .” She grimaced. “It’s hard to control. When I’m asleep, I mean. I kept making the house shake and . . . wrecking my room . . . and the neighbours actually packed up and left. And even when I’m just using it, it’s like . . . I can push tables about or pull wardrobes over but trying to lift little things – like this – um . . . have you ever tried to pick up a nickel with a shovel?”

“Not easy?” Scott guessed.

“No.”

 

Abruptly, Jean threw herself down on the bed and sent the hairbrush skidding away onto the floor. “And everything’s always . . . always _there_!”

Scott wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not but the room seemed to shake.

“I can feel it all, all the time!” she went on, fingers clenching and unclenching, “Everything’s always . . . _there_! And it’s never _right_. Never straight! Never in the right place!”

It wasn’t his imagination, the room was definitely rattling. “Ah . . . what do you mean?” he asked, as confidently as he could, frantically squashing down any panicky thoughts that Jean might pick up and take the wrong way.

“All this!” She encompassed the room in a single gesture. “It’s . . . it’s like I can feel it, in my head, pressing down on my brain. When I move things – with my mind – it’s like I’m lifting it up . . . physically, I mean. There’s a . . . what did the Professor think it was like? I’ve got a sense of mass and shape – I think if I didn’t, I’d never be able to control things, they’d just go flying about too fast or I’d forget they were there – or I’d crush them or something. And it used to be that I only felt that when I was really concentrating and trying to move things but now I can sense it all the time and I can’t stop and nothing ever seems like it’s right, because I can feel things as they really are, not just how they look and nothing’s straight or really round or . . . or . . .”

 

“Please – breathe!” Scott pleaded. Having to explain to the Professor how he’d caused his new classmate to hyperventilate did not sound fun. Explaining how he’d caused her to demolish half the east wing even less so.

“Oh my God . . .” Jean’s hands flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, yet again, “I’ve never really had to explain it out loud – the Professor just looked into my mind and he was the one who told my parents –”

“You explained it fine,” he insisted, “I understand. It’s ok.” That seemed to do the trick. She took a deep breath and the rattling subsided. Immensely relieved, Scott lowered himself onto the bed beside her. He considered saying something about it sounding like a pretty bad thing to have to live with but that was probably a sure fire way to get her stressed out again. Instead, he went with, “And the Professor will help you work through it. Like he’s been helping us.”

 

For the first time, Jean looked him straight in the face. “What’s he helping you with?”

“Um . . .” He rubbed the back of neck. “Well . . . I’m really, really good at geometry. And . . . and I can shoot laser beams from my eyes that can melt steel.” Tapping his bulky red glasses, he added, “Except when I’m wearing these. Kind of lucky, ‘cause otherwise I can’t stop.”

“Oh.” Jean was staring now, an odd mix of horror and curiosity crossing her face. Scott looked away, his cheeks growing hot. He saw her in his peripheral vision, leaning closer. “Can you see?” she asked, “I mean, if it’s some sort of laser beam or – is it a laser? You said laser but you don't really mean that, do you? It's not focused, it just floods out and everything goes red and – you see everything, don’t you? Things burn up and break apart and you can’t look away –”

 

She jerked back violently, horrified apologies rushing to her lips, but Scott turned quickly and raised his hands. “No, please, it’s not your fault. I guess . . . you couldn’t help picking that up. Yeah, I can see just fine. Everything’s red, though. So I’m _really_ colour-blind. But yeah, seeing’s not a problem.”

“H-how long have you . . . ?” Her question trailed off.

“Since I was thirteen. That’s when they came on and wouldn’t stop. I’d . . . I’d been getting headaches for years and a couple of times . . . I think some of the holes in the walls were probably my fault . . .” He dug his toe into the carpet. “It seems like it’s been this way forever sometimes.”

“Yeah . . .” she breathed and Scott got the distinct impression he was not the only one who couldn’t remember what it was like to be normal.

 

What was it like for her, he wondered, to have to cope with hearing other people’s thoughts all the time on top of the backwash from her telekinesis? Sure, she didn’t have to worry the slightest slip leading to smashed furniture or have to sleep in goggles but if being stressed meant everything in sight shaking and thoughts could just bleed into her mind . . .

 

Jean tugged at the blankets again, all her attention focused on the impossible task of getting it to lie completely straight. Was that any less obsessive than the way he went through exactly the same routine every morning, always taking off his goggles and putting them up on the right of the sink, then taking the glasses from up on the left and making sure they sat exactly right on his face, all the while with his eyes tight shut? Was it any less compulsive than constantly pushing the shades back against his nose, just in case they had slipped a fraction? He knew intellectually, just as Jean must have known that a blanket was never going to be perfect, that the glasses were designed never to slip. He still kept checking.

 

He was doing it when Jean remembered once again that there was a world outside of the foot of linen immediately to her left. “You wanted to show me the rest of the Mansion.”

It was a statement, not a question, which threw him for a moment. “What – oh, yeah. Yeah.” He got up awkwardly. She followed suit, tugging the sleeves of her jumper down over her hands.

“Is there, uh, anything you wanted to see first?”

Jean shook her head.

“Right. Ok.” He racked his brain, trying to work out the best place to start. “Well . . . how about we go down to the library?”

“Sounds good to me!” She smiled at him with slightly forced cheer. It made her freckles bob up and down, he noticed.

“Right! It's, uh, this way.”

 

Scott walked slowly back out into the corridor. Jean followed him, still tugging at her sleeves, and they trooped away together towards the great staircases and the rest of the house.

 

Behind them, the door to Jean's room clicked shut of its own accord.


	2. Baked Alaska

The room smelt of sweat, stale beer and lost hopes but it was at least ten degrees cooler than outside so Alex was not complaining. He wiped his hands on his jeans and smiled sweetly at the three dirt-encrusted patrons who looked up to glare blearily at him over half-empty bottles.

 

Their stares tracked him across to the bar, making him feel as though he should be chewing a toothpick and swaggering with a couple of six-guns at his belt. Perhaps he was disappointing them because he wasn't.

 

The barkeeper did not look particularly happy to see him either. This seemed a little odd because it didn't look like she was getting much in the way of customers. Still, he kept his smile in place and ordered a shot of Jack Daniels and an orange juice. She sneered and slammed them down in front of him, overcharged him and went back to disinterestedly cleaning a glass.

 

Alex picked up the drinks with a friendly nod and picked his way across the unnervingly sticky floor to a table by the window. “Is it me,” he asked the woman already sitting there, “or am I not exactly welcome here?”

“You're wearing a designer t-shirt and you've got hair like you're doing a deodorant commercial. Like hell you'd be welcome in a place like this.”

“But you fit right in?”

The woman grinned, flicked pink hair out of her eyes and ran a finger along the horns curving round the side of her head. “You kidding? This is my kind of hole.”

 

He raised the shot glass in salute and downed it in one. “Certainly well hidden,” he said when he tongue had stopped burning, “No one can say you don't know how to pick a good meeting place.”

She shrugged and swirled the dregs of her own drink about.

“And the – uh.” He mimed around his forehead. “No one bothering you about 'em?”

“What do you think, Summers? They think I'm a punk who wants to shock people with bone headbands, just like everyone else. They bother me, I head-butt 'em, end of story.”

“Hey, ok. Just checking. Guessing you haven't had to head-butt anyone yet.”

“You volunteering?”

 

Alex grinned and took a swig of the orange juice. “Yeah, that's the Sarah Rushman menacing attitude I know and love. Good to see you've been keeping it up in my absence.”

She snorted softly. “Good to see you're still an asshole.”

 

“So what's the deal? The Prof said you were pretty insistent about getting some back-up. What's happening out here that you can't handle?”

Sarah tugged her phone out from a jacket pocket and fiddled with it one-handed. After a moment, she put it down and slid it across to him. He picked it up and squinted at the picture on the screen, turning it round a couple of times with a frown.

 

“What am I looking at?” he asked eventually.

“It's a mailbox.”

“Yeah, I get that but – is that _frost_?”

“Yep.”

“In this heat?”

“Yep.”

“That's new.”

 

“Look at the rest of the photos. It wasn't just the mailbox, it was the whole street. The sidewalk, the houses. A couple of the bigger gardens, the plants have died. Sudden cold-snap. Makes no sense to anyone, obviously. It hasn't dropped below a eighty all week.”

“And this was where, exactly?”

“Three blocks from here.”

“And no one was hurt?”

“Not yet.”

 

Alex handed the phone back. “You know who's doing this, don't you?”

“No,” Sarah corrected, “I know where they've been living. Old industrial greenhouse. Shut down before they were finished so the local gossip says. No one goes up there.”

“Must be pretty hot in one of those.”

“Good place to stay if you're feeling a bit cold.”

 

She shrugged again and looked intently at her glass, then ran a finger around behind her left horn. “I didn't want to tackle them alone,” she confided in a low voice, “Not after seeing what happened to those gardens . . .”

Alex cocked an eyebrow. “That what I'm here for? To be your portable heater?”

“Something like that.”

Putting down his glass, he jerked a thumb at the window. “So we're going to go and have a nice little chat and see what we can do for them. Business as usual. With added frostbite.”

“You got anything better planned?”

“Starting to wish I did.”

 

The patrons did not look at them as they left the bar. Clearly people leaving was a far less interesting event than people arriving. Sarah had parked her bike across the street, the big Harley getting stinging hot in the sun. She barely seemed to notice, but that was probably just down to the gloves and biker leathers. Alex perched behind her and immediately regretted sacrificing leg and ass protection for not sweating to death. “Don't suppose you've got a helmet?” he shouted over the engine's starting roar.

“Like I need one!” she shouted back, baring her teeth at him over her shoulder.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and hung on like grim death.

 

By some miracle, not a single cop spotted them as they shot westwards, weaving through the scattered traffic with the recklessness of someone who doesn't have to worry about breaking their bones and has totally forgotten that other people do. Making a sharp left turn just before the freeway, Sarah took them into a run-down industrial park. Right on the edge, just before the grey warehouses gave way to scrub-land, she pulled up in front of a long, low glass building ringed with a security fence and a padlocked gate.

 

It looked totally abandoned. Alex eased back and swung off the bike, opening his mouth to ask if Sarah was sure she had brought them to the right place. She pointed before he could say anything and he saw the frost glistening on the inside of the glass. “Right.”

 

He walked over to the padlock, examining it for signs of being forced. It came away in his hand. The rusted lock had been pushed in just enough to hold the chain without actually being shut. “Smart. Beats a hole in the fence.” He looked around quickly. “What about cameras?”

“Two. Broken.”

“That makes things easier.”

 

They slipped through the gate and walked side by side up the short path to the greenhouse door. Sarah flexed and Alex heard the unpleasantly wet sound of bone sliding through flesh. He put a hand on her arm. “Hey, you looking to start a fight already?”

“Nuh uh.” She heaved the door aside, showing him how it would slide shut again if left to its own devices. Twirling the two bone shards she had extruded, she used them to wedge it open. “Making sure we can back down.”

“Good call. Uhrr!” He shivered in the rush of chill air that was escaping from inside.

“Better light it up, hot-stuff. We got enough blue people already.”

 

Throwing her a lopsided smirk, he put his hands together and concentrated. There wasn't an easy switch inside his body that he could turn on, at least, not one that wouldn't cause him to flatten the building. Instead, he had to ease into it, letting the power grow degree by degree. How exactly he was able to do that in the first place . . . ? He left that to the imagination of smarter people.

 

His skin began to glow faintly, waves of red light flickering across his arms, brightening gradually to orange. Heat rose with the light, taking the edge off the cold. Sarah hunched her shoulders and moved slightly closer.

 

Exchanging a look of silent agreement, they stepped into the greenhouse. The air temperature quickly dropped. Thick frost and even ice coated the stacks of old crates around them. Someone seemed to have decided to use the greenhouse for storing general junk – crates, planks, pallets, even bits of an old car. Alex wondered if they would mind that their stuff was getting the deep-freeze treatment. He also wondered how much colder everything would be without the sunshine pouring through the glass above.

 

“Hello?” he called out, trying to sound reassuring with his teeth trying to chatter, “Anybody there?”

“What the hell are you doing?” Sarah hissed.

“Trying to avoid startling the person breaking the laws of physics. Trust me. Many alarm clocks have died proving that this is a smart thing to do.”

She looked dubious, but said, “Fine,” before adding more loudly, “We're not going to hurt you! We're here to help!”

 

Up ahead, a pile of sacking shuffled backwards and tried to hide behind an empty planter. “Go away!” it said in a high, muffled voice, “Stay back!”

Alex stopped immediately, putting a hand out to stop Sarah when she didn't. The glance she gave him was poisonous.

“We're not going to hurt you!” he repeated, “We just want to talk to you!”

The pile curled in on itself. “Don't come close,” it pleaded, “ _Please_! You have to keep back!”

“Ok! We're keeping back. See?” He held out his arms to show that they were indeed doing just that.

 

For a few moments, everything was still. Then, cautiously, one side of the sacking lifted up, a dusting of frost falling from it. A face, small and pale, peered out. A kid. A girl, Alex thought, though it was hard to tell. Couldn't have been more than about twelve either way.

 

Her eyes were very wide and very dark.

 

Sarah knelt down, hunching so she was as level as possible with the kid. “Hi,” she said, “What's your name?”

The temperature dropped still further. Those dark eyes blinked once, slowly. “Bobbi.” A whisper. “What's yours?”

“I'm Sarah. This big galoot is Alex.”

Bobbi looked between them, mouth moving soundlessly. “He's . . . glowing.”

“Yeah. He does that. Gets nice and toasty too. You don't mind that do you?”

She shook her head quickly and sat up a little, tugging her nest about her and chewing her lip. “You've got horns.”

 

“She does,” Alex agreed, “They go with her personality.”

“You're both . . . um . . . you're both . . .”

“We can both do things most people can't. Just like you. So you don't have to be afraid of us. We really are here to help.”

This was obviously not easy for the kid to believe. Alex surreptitiously rubbed his hands together and upping his power output as much as he dared, trying to keep his circulation going . Bobbi chewed her lip some more then turned away from them and buried her head in the sacking. “I didn't mean to hurt anyone!” she blurted.

 

“Shit.” Sarah exhaled slowly, breath misting white. She shifted her balance, leaning forward slightly. Alex imagined the way her face would be moving, trying to settle on which emotion it was best to show. She was probably licking her lips. “Whatever happened isn’t your fault, kid. I know it doesn’t seem like that right now but it’s true. It's like learning to walk. Right now, you can't help falling over but one day that's not gonna be a problem. Trust me. I've been there.”

“Nice,” Alex murmured.

“True.”

 

Bobbi's head re-emerged, the faintest start of hope quivering on her face. She rocked back on her haunches and tugged the sacking around her again, shifting it about until it all became a kind of cloak. Her fingers flashed into view a couple of times, long and thin and bone white.

“You're not alone,” Alex told her, taking a step closer, “We're not alone.”

The kid looked up at him, down at Sarah, then back at him. “I don't want to hurt anyone else,” she said in a very small voice, “I want to be warm again.”

 

“I know kid.” Sarah got up and half-turned so only Alex would hear her clearly. “We need more help here. We can't get her somewhere safe like this.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “Maybe Forge? He could rig something up, like he did for me. Maybe.” He frowned dubiously. “Cold doesn't work like that though. You don't generate cold, you take heat away. So . . .”

“What? Hey, what are you doing?”

She did not grab hold of Alex's arm because it was Sarah and she didn't touch people much, but he knew she wanted to. “Heat's energy,” he said as he walked towards Bobbi, “And I can do energy.” He glanced up at the sunlight streaming through the roof, any heat it gave sucked out of the air by the girl with white skin. But what did he care about the air when he could take the sun in a photon at a time?

“You can also do radiation burns, Summers. And what happens if you get sucked dry? This is a dumb idea.”

“Dumb and pretty.” He grinned back at Sarah. “That's me. Go call Forge. I got this.”

 

He was maybe half a metre from Bobbi now. This close, the cold was palpable, turning his clothes clammy and making the hairs on his arms stand on end. He knelt down like Sarah had done and said, “Ok. I don't think I can warm you up properly but I think I can help. Just for a little bit. Ok?”

Bobbi nodded uncertainly.

“Ok. Let's get this place warmed up a bit, shall we? You ever had Baked Alaska?”

“I . . . don't think so.”

“Yeah, well, it's nice y'know? Still cold inside, but cooked on the outside. Let's see if we can't do something like that.”

 

Balling his fists, he concentrated, taking it slow. He felt the usual prickling as he ramped up the power, the wash of warmth through his skin and then –

 

Yellow/white light burst from his body, great halos of it spreading out and up. In any normal room, things would have got real hot, real quickly but here, the warmth spread like butter. The cold gave ground only gradually and he was careful not to give in and go hotter. Easy to be flippant, but if he lost control, things would get real bad, real quick. There was a trick to it, a way to time the bursts so they didn't get too hot and didn't drain him too fast. A trick of timing, of breath and heartbeats. Like a really good song.

 

Behind him, he heard Sarah's boots scape and clomp away. He opened his eyes. Bobbi was staring at him in utter amazement, her mouth hanging open. She'd let some of the sacking fall away, uncovering a shock of brown hair, the neck of a hoodie. Lifting a hand, she held it out to him, fingers curling as she felt the heat coming off him.

 

“Nice and toasty,” she said dreamily and she smiled, all the fear melting away.

 

Alex knew that tomorrow he would be as much use as a burnt-out match, that running hot for as long as it would take Forge to get something more permanent set up would leave him utterly wiped out. He also knew the Prof would likely chew him out for being reckless again and for jumping in without thinking the risks through properly.

 

That smile made it worth it.


	3. Chaos Theory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aproximate ages so far:
> 
> Scott Summers: 17  
> Jean Grey: 17  
> Alex Summers: 27  
> Sarah Rushmore: 27  
> Hank McCoy: 19  
> Pietro Maximoff: 18  
> Wanda Maximoff: 18

“Thisisabadidea.”

“It is not. It is a perfectly sensible idea. I'm amazed I didn't think of it sooner.”

“Nonono.Badidea.You'regonnafreakherout.That'swhatyou'regonnado.That'swhywe'reouthere,notdownthere.”

“We're out here because the Professor'll get upset if I blackout the mansion again.”

“If _she_ blacksoutthemansion.That'swhatyoumeansodon'tbotherhidingit.”

“I mean exactly what I say. She won't be in any danger – and neither will anyone else. I have given a _little_ thought to this, you know.”

“NoIdon't.You'realwayscomingoutwiththiscrazyschemes.Idon'tthinkyouthinkanyofthemthroughproperly.IthinkyoujustwanttoimpresstheProfessorandyou'lldoanythingtodothat,evenifitmeansputtingmysisterindanger – OOF!”

 

Pietro Maximoff ploughed face-first into the grass, flailing legs leaving blurs in the air. The rock he had tripped over rolled to a stop at the feet of the dark-haired girl sitting cross-legged under a nearby tree. She picked it up and scowled. “The big brother act gets old sometimes, you know that?”

“Ijustdon'twant –” Pietro righted himself in an instant. “I just don't want you getting hurt,” he said, a little more slowly, “Again.”

“Hank's not going to hurt me. Are you, Hank?”

“Hmm?” A head topped with a mop of dark blue hair appear from behind the cart of electronic boxes drawn up next to the tree. “No, of course not. There is absolutely nothing to be worried about. This is going to be perfectly safe and, as I seem to have been saying all afternoon, the reason we are doing it out here is that the Professor will kill me with his brain if his computer goes down again this week. Wanda's not going to feel a thing.”

 

“See?” Wanda lobbed the rock at Pietro, who fielded it neatly.

He scowled in exactly the way she had. “Maybe,” he grumbled, “That'swhathesays.”

“And who here is a certified genius?” Hank enquired, connecting two cameras together and setting them up on matching tripods, “What I say should have a little weight.”

“Likealeadballoon.”

 

Hank chuckled good-naturedly. He fiddled with the cameras a bit more, then picked up his tablet and started tapping rapidly. Wanda rose and stretched, lacing her fingers together and bending at the waist. Her long braid slapped against her back as she straightened. “So, what should I do first?”

“Just stand there for a few seconds . . . there. That's the baseline established. We'd probably better start off small. This is supposed to be about testing the impact of your powers on the wider environment, so if we just gradually ramp it up from zero to raining frogs a couple of times, I should get a pretty good range of results. Hmm. Maybe the Professor would let me try this in one of the Muir Island labs . . . I'm sure Dr McTaggert would be interested in – sorry. Tangent. Whenever you're ready, Wanda.” He grinned broadly and gave her a thumbs up.

“I've never actually made it rain frogs,” she mused, closing her eyes, “Not yet anyway.”

 

She closed her eyes and splayed her fingers out, holding them level with her belt. Pietro backed away rapidly, circling around to stand more or less beside Hank, eyes darting between the tablet and his sister. A few seconds passed. Wanda's breathing grew regular and deliberate. In the distance, a crow cawed noisily.

 

At first it could have been a trick of the light. A branch of the tree shifting and casting a pale blue shadow over her hands. Steadily though, the shadow grew. It swelled and budded, becoming a web of hazy shapes. They tumbled around Wanda's fingers, merging and separating with sluggish dignity. Her lips moved slightly, words forming under her breath.

 

Loose strands of her hair started to rise lazily upwards. Leaves blew up from the grass in a spiralling column. A couple of pebbles joined them. Then clumps of soil. Wanda went up on tiptoes, the blue shapes at her fingertips spinning faster and becoming ever more intricate, until even Pietro had a hard time keeping track of them. He alternated between staring worriedly at his sister and peering over Hank's shoulder at the tablet, which showed dozens of charts and graphs, all of them in the process of spiking. Hank studiously ignored the fidgeting blur and increased the scale on the main readout.

 

Wanda's feet left the ground one minute and seventeen seconds after she had started. Her eyes were tight shut with concentration as minute arcs of blue fire jumped along her arms and across her face. The grass beneath her shredded and whipped upwards. Stones and insects were swept into the vortex. One whole branch of the tree started straining towards the sky, the ominous sound of cracking wood sharp over the hiss of spinning air.

 

Pietro saw it first – obviously – and called out a warning. Caught in her trance, Wanda did not hear though and it was only when Hank boomed out that she could stop that she registered the danger.

 

Perhaps if she had just brought the spell down again, everything would have been ok. Then again, perhaps not. Whatever the case, she sensed the branch about to snap and tried to stop it. The shapes around her hands wobbled violently, like a dozen tightrope-walkers suddenly trying to change direction. Rivulets of blue fire, brighter than before, cascaded from her hands. The branch jerked violently downwards and blew apart in a spray of fine wood dust. The whirlwind exploded, pelting the two boys with assorted greenery.

 

And with a rather impressive _whoomph_ noise, both the cameras erupted in flames.

 

Wanda touched down gently, haze and lightning dispersing. She opened her eyes, blinked a couple of times and beheld the sight of Hank and Pietro, coated in dust, grass and beetles, shrieking and trying frantically to beat out the fire with their hands.

 

Under the circumstances, she had to admit that falling about laughing was not the most helpful thing she could had done.

 

Pietro glared at her as he knocked one camera to the ground and hammered his foot down on it until the flames were out and the casing had been reduced to splintered plastic. “WhatdidIsay?WhatdidIsay?!Thiswasastupididea!”

“Hey!” Hank yelled, clapping his massive hands repeatedly around the remaining camera, “Oh, well done Speedy Gonzalez! Now I won't be able to salvage anything from that!”

“Likeyou'dhavegotanythingoutofitanyway!” The silver-haired boy whipped around and blurred to Wanda's side. “Areyouallright?Hey,stoplaughing,thisisserious!”

“I'm sorry!” she wheezed, gulping down air, “Just the two of you looked so – oh, Hank, I'm sorry.”

 

Finally getting the fire to go out, Hank stepped back and sucked his singed fingers. He surveyed the wreckage and sighed heavily. “Don't worry about it,” he told her resignedly, “It's not like most of my allowance doesn't already go on replacing expensive scientific equipment.” Bending down, he picked up his dropped tablet. “The important thing is that I got a lot of good data before they went up.”

“TheimportantthingisthatWanda'ssafe!”

“Well, yes, obviously, but –”

“No!Nobuts!She'snotimmunetoherownpower! Ifshe'dkeptgoingshe'dhavegothurtandyouwouldn'thavestoppedherintime – OOF!”

 

Hank looked down at Pietro and raised his eyebrows. “Twice in ten minutes. What are the odds?”

“Same rock too,” Wanda said, the faintest trace of blue haze scattering from her right hand.

“You're really getting pretty good at focused events.”

“Thanks! Did you get everything you needed?”

“Oh, all and more. Your power readings are absolutely amazing! There are quantum fluctuations and exotic particles here that I haven't seen outside a supercollider! And that's without starting on the actual environmental changes that you were able to create –”

 

“Areyouusingsciencetoflirtwithmysister?” Pietro demanded, snatching Hank's tablet away with an accusing frown.

“Oh for the love of –” Wanda made to slap him on the back of the head, then got him with her other hand when he tried to dodge. “I am five minutes _older_ than you, you dope. Stop being protective or I'll turn you into a frog.”

 

“Fineokfine!” Pietro tossed the tablet back towards Hank. “ButI'mnotgoingtobetheonewhotellstheProfessorthatyoubrokeoneofhistrees!”


	4. Hot Date

“On your right, Pryde!” Mort's warning was almost too late. She threw her body out of phase on reflex and the burning couch that came thundering through the weakened ceiling passed through her arm in a rush of tingling heat.

 

Kate dived out of the reach of the flames, trying not to imagine what would have happened if she had been solid.

 

They were halfway up the building now, well into the apartments overtaken by the fire. The din from the alarms was deafening and the smoke was growing thicker and thicker, both making it harder and harder to keep a clear head. How many rooms had they checked now? Ten? Fifteen?

 

It had probably been a mistake not to wait and get a better estimate of how many tenants were unaccounted for.

 

Mort rocketed past and landed in the corridor ahead of her. With his hood up and a dish cloth wrapped around his mouth, he looked like a bandit, or maybe a mugger.

“Please tell me you got those people out of here,” she gasped, tugging her own borrowed 'mask' back up her nose.

“Off like a shot down the back stairs. One of 'em said there were a couple more families along here.”

“Not any more. Those are empty.”

“Right then! Next floor?”

She grabbed hold of his shoulder. “Going up!”

 

As always, the extra mass made it harder. It dragged her down, physically and psychologically, and that was before she started the mental juggling act of keeping her grip solid and her passenger phased out.  _And then_ she had to air walk them straight up without any actual walking, which was just taking the whatever. 

 

Lucky she was as good as she was, really.

 

They ghosted up to the next floor, coming through just shy of the stairwell. The other end of the corridor was engulfed in smoke and the stench of it was overpowering. One of the visible doors was open, the owner having apparently fled the flames without stopping to check on their neighbours. Kate double checked while Mort kangaroo-kicked the opposite door off its hinges. She heard him yelling for anyone still in there as she dashed from room to cramped room and on through the wall to the next apartment.

 

Straight into a furnace.

 

The fire had caught hold of the place with a vengeance, gobbling up cupboards and chairs and setting the walls alight. She blundered through it, eyes stinging, keeping as far out of phase as she could while still being able to stay above the floor. As soon as she was clear of the – kitchen, probably – she solidified her head again and called out, listening intently for a response over the roar of the flames.

 

Somewhere off to her left, someone called back. At least, she thought they did. It was a very weak sound and she could very well have imagined it but – no, there it was again. Blundering through the living room, she tracked the noise to what would be the bedroom, if this apartment was anything like the dozen others she had already checked.

 

Putting a solid hand quickly against the door to check it wasn’t super hot or anything, Kate pushed on through to the other side. It  _was_ a bedroom, quite a new one with cheery wallpaper and a large double bed. There were pictures on the walls and a vase of pink flowers on the dressing table, doilies and a little gold clock.

 

The pall of smoke kind of took away from the homeliness of it all though.

 

An elderly couple huddled together in the far corner of the bed, pale and shaking, coughing and weeping. They were clinging to one another in utter terror, so frightened that they didn't even notice she was there at first. When they did, they both gasped and flinched: clearly the sudden appearance of a masked apparition in the middle of suffocating to death was not actually that reassuring. “It's ok,” she said, hoping they would be able to hear her properly, “I'm here to help!”

The old man tried to say something back but doubled over with a fresh bout of choking. His wife lolled against his shoulder, practically unconscious.

 

“Gonna get you out of here,” she assured them, fighting back coughs of her own and moving towards them. There was no way she would get back out to Mort through the rest of the apartment now. Checking the window, she found a distinct lack of fire-escape and ran through a mental list of all the swear words she knew. She would have to ghost the two of them with her and hope that the shock didn't finish them off. As a temporary measure, she snatched up a coverlet, wrapped it tight around her arm and smashed the glass, bringing them a few moments of fresher air before the laws of convection kicked in and smothered it.

 

Through the broken window, she heard the welcome screech of approaching sirens. 

 

Wishing for roughly the seventieth time that she had brought her earpiece, she pulled out her phone and speed-dialled Mort.

“ _Pyhde?”_ His voice was badly muffled.

“Found a couple. Need to phase em' down to the ground. Firemen are coming though. Where are you?”

“ _Uhm – stuch. No un els hre. Strhs on fir. Whr ah yu?_

“Flat five oh four. Bedroom. Can you make it?”

“ _Ihl gve it ahgo.”_

 

He hung up and for a long few seconds, Kate had nothing to do but wait and fret about what had happened to him. She got closer to the couple, who weakly tried to get out of bed to join her. They couldn't have had any idea what was going on. Hopefully they would be too dazed to realise what was happening them she –

 

The door exploded inwards as Mort threw his not inconsiderable weight at it. He barrelled in, shirt smouldering, the fire right on his heels. Barely stopping to take in the situation, he sprang over to the bed and scooped up the old lady as Kate helped the old man stand. She braced herself between him and Mort, wrapping one arm around each of them, preparing to take them all out of phase.

 

At that exact moment, the old lady stirred and cried out, quite clearly, “Otto!”

 

And Kate saw the fluffy cat curled up hissing in the space between the bed and the wall.

 

There was zero time to stop and pick up the pet. Mort made an unintelligible noise that was almost certainly a curse. Kate focused, pulling them atom-by-atom into intangibility, horribly aware of the flames rushing towards them.

 

Then, just before they dropped through the floor, Mort's tongue lashed out to its full five-foot length, wrapped right around Otto's belly and snatched him up in a ball of snarling fur.

 

Kate was pretty sure the cat was trying to tear Mort's face off all the way down.

 


	5. Field Work

Razor wire. Chain link fences. Steel frames and tent pegs. Belt buckles and toecaps. The buzz of electrical equipment.

 

Guns. Bullets. Triggers.

 

Cages.

 

They were old and familiar shapes. He knew them intimately, had memorised the footprints they left in the world long ago. They let him build up a mental map of the camp below him, showing him what the canvas and the rain would otherwise have hidden. He could track the guards by the motion of their equipment, the scientists' work by the whirring of their servers, the prisoners by the bobbing of handcuffs and cage doors. Everything he needed to plan an attack.

 

The soldiers were not expecting it. The camp had been built in a steep, narrow valley, the better to contain the inmates should they get out of control. There were a few outlying guard-posts, just enough to cover the obvious access routes, not enough to be too visible from the air. Easy enough to write off as an unimportant if anyone noticed. Anonymity was the first line of defence for this place, not a few bored sentries with machine guns and too much time on their hands.

 

He had slipped by them with ease, just another shadow in the night coasting low to the ground. Now, sitting high above the lights of the camp, he was invisible, cloaked by the darkness and hidden from thermograph by the rocky shelf beneath him. Had he wished, he could have ripped the camp apart from there and no one would have been any the wiser. There was part of him that sincerely wanted to but it was easy to push the idea aside. Enacting some sort of wrath of God would not help their victims.

 

So instead, he concentrated and reached out for the gun barrels. And when he had them all, once he was absolutely certain he had rooted out every pistol and rifle in the camp, he crushed each and every one of them flat.

 

The result was instant commotion. Men and women running about, shouting in confusion. The crackle of panicked radio-waves. The fright of an army, neutered.

 

Exhaling, turning his focus back upon himself, he lifted smoothly into the air and floated out over them, great coat flapping about him. He threw his arms wide, the gesture of a conductor about to start a grand performance. The rain, flurrying with the wind, stung his face, bitingly cold. An involuntary grin tugged at his mouth as he savoured the anticipation, just for an instant, letting his power and the chill air remind him that he was still alive.

 

Then he began.

 

The tent poles was first, ripping up from the ground and spiralling upwards. He pulled them apart from one another and sent them spinning dizzyingly over the heads of the soldiers. One after another, he singled out targets and hurled lengths of steel tubing at them, bending the bars as they struck, pinioning arms and legs and knocking bodies to the ground to thrash about helplessly in the mud.

 

He shredded the radios and receiver dishes to make sure no one could call for help. He had already swamped all the frequencies they were using but it would have been foolish to take chances. The fence went next, flung high and brought down to catch up all those soldiers who had evaded the initial barrage. He was not gentle about it.

 

Floating down, he clasped his hands behind his back and took the time to survey his work. A stray made a dash for it, a scrawny young specimen, shaking and wetting his trousers. The skeleton of a trestle table dragged him screaming down to the sodden earth. And that was that.

 

One squat, prefabricated block was the only thing left standing. He had left it alone, letting them lock the doors against him and cower inside as if that would stop him coming for them. He lifted an eyebrow, faintly amused. The bolts and hinges disintegrated. The doors fell open with an anticlimactic splat.

 

The lights were still on inside. Sparing the generator had been as deliberate as leaving the building standing. Darkness and chaos in the open debilitated. Darkness and chaos inside killed.

 

There was a gaggle of soldiers waiting fearfully for him in the hallway. He flung them aside by their belt buckles, hard enough to stun them against the feeble walls.

 

White florescence lent the place the heartless look of a hospital. The air stunk of fear and antiseptic. Bile stirred deep in his throat as he breathed it in, the taste of bad memories. His lips pressed into a thin line. There would be nothing more to enjoy this night.

 

At the first junction, two brave souls tried to stab him, their knives falling simultaneously towards his throat. Without thinking, he drove the hilts back into their owners faces and dropped them where they stood. No one tried to stop him after that. Not until he reached the main room. Not until he reached the prison.

 

He saw the cages first, before he even registered the people in front of them. Double ranks of mesh boxes, stacked two high, clean, with hard plastic bases – not large. Not big enough for full grown men. Just as large as they needed to be. Just the right size for children.

 

Half of them were occupied, roughly. There was a boy with eyes like smouldering coals. A girl, hairless, a sheen of colours running from neck to scalp. Twins in adjacent cells, pressed against the intervening wall as if it would hurt them to be further apart. A mound of twisted, wiry strands that shuffled and sniffled blindly around its few square feet of liberty.

 

The oldest might have been fifteen or sixteen. The youngest – ten? Eight?

 

His attention drifted slowly but inexorably to the trio of white-coated men cowering in the corner, to the soldier in a colonel's uniform standing defiantly in front of the cages, to the hooded figure at his side.

 

To give the colonel credit, he seemed to have dropped any metal weapon he might have otherwise been carrying. Instead, he barked an order and roughly shoved his companion forward, dragging back the hood as he did so. “<Do it!>” he commanded, “<Stop him! Now!>”

The green skinned, green haired man looked petrified, his vivid yellow eyes going wide. But he marshalled himself nonetheless and flung up his hands. “<Sleep! Stop. And. Sleep!>”

 

Erik Lehnshirr lifted a finger and tapped the side of his helmet thoughtfully. “<Interesting. I can actually feel you tickling away at my mind, even through this. You must be quite formidable. I would hate to face you unprotected, my friend.>”

The green man faulted. “<W-what?>”

“<What is wrong?>” demanded the colonel, “<Why isn't it working?>”

 

Erik flicked his finger. The front of the nearest cage tore free, the mesh stretching out and elongating. They snaked around the colonel's neck and _squeezed._ He began to gag and choke, clawing ineffectually at the metal noose as it dragged him off the floor. One of the scientists whimpered.

 

“<If you have been coerced, I will understand. You would not be the first to betray your own kind out of fear for your life. Help me free these children and I will consider the scales balanced.>”

“<I . . .>” The green man looked up at Erik uncertainly. Behind him, the colonel's face was turning blue, eyes rolling back in his head. “<They . . .>”

 

The colonel dropped, senseless, the metal loosening at the last possible moment. The mutant flinched, swallowing hard. “<I'll help,>” he whispered, “<Please don't hurt me.>”

“<Of course not.>” Erik put a hand on his shoulder, gripping it reassuringly. “<I'm here to save you too.>”

 

It took mere seconds to open the rest of the cages. The children emerged warily, unsure that they were really free. Clearly eager to show that he really was willing to help, the green man hurried to help those in the top cages get down. The first girl he approached snarled at him and backed away. With frightened glances at Erik, he persisted and she eventually relented, allowing him to lift her down before baring her teeth and raking at the back of his legs with clawed fingers. He yelped but moved diligently on to the next cell, and by the time he had worked his way right around the room, the children were grudgingly beginning to accept that he was not going to harm them.

 

They huddled together, watching Erik with a mixture of hope and trepidation. He smiled as best he could, hiding his mounting horror at how thin and malnourished they all were. Better to be confidently reassuring. “<You will be safe,>” he told them, “<You do not need to fear me. I am like you and I will take you away from here. Do you understand?>”

The boy with the burning eyes nodded first, hesitantly, then the girl with the claws, more firmly, then the rest.

“<Good.>” He turned to the green man, who was hovering nervously by the last of the cages. “<Do you know if we can get some waterproof clothes for these children?>”

“<I . . . I think there is a storeroom along the corridor. There might be coats. And blankets.>”

“<Go and find out. Quickly.>”

 

As soon as the man was gone, Erik turned and pointed. The cages pulled apart, mesh panels warping and bending. Medical equipment rose from the benches along one of the walls. The lights flickered and buzzed. Ripping away all their cover, he faced the three scientists along the length of the room. They pressed themselves further into the corner, as though it might somehow open up and give them a way out. Syringes and cuffs formed a constellation around them, snapping and stabbing.

 

“<Children,>” Erik said in a low, controlled voice, “<These are the men who imprisoned you. They did so because you are not like them and that made them afraid. They did not try to conquer that fear by helping you understand yourselves. They did not treat you with the respect and kindness that you deserve. Instead, they locked you up and poked and pried and tried to take everything you are for themselves. That makes them monsters. And this is how we deal with monsters.>”

 

One of the cage sides scythed through the air, millimetres above the scientists' heads. It embedded itself in the walls, driven in deep and solidly. Two more panels crashed down, sinking into the floor, boxing the three men in, the edges of the mesh weaving together and locking the shape immovable. One of them was sobbing now, the others screaming and pleading. Erik made a fist and the new cage shrunk, crunching inwards until none of them could move and it would only take the tiniest fraction more pressure to break bones.

 

“<Uh . . .>” The green man had returned, his arms full of blankets. He stood in the doorway, staring.

“<Good!>” Erik beckoned him in and started handing out oversized coats to the children. “<Now we must hurry and leave.>”

 

He did not spare the scientists another glance.

 

Leading his fellow mutants outside into the rain, he gathered them together on a patch of ground largely clear of moaning soldiers. With a curt wave, he summoned every large piece of loose metal he could reach, layering tables and cage mesh and ammunition cases together and compressing them flat. The big, mismatched sheet this created floated sedately down to hover in front of the children. He told them to climb aboard and huddle together in the centre where they could share their heat and stay well away from the edges.

 

The green man hesitated but Erik beckoned him to join him at the front, where they both sat cross-legged facing the others. “<Hold on tight,>” Erik told them and steadily, the 'magic carpet' began to rise.

 

The children gasped. Some of them even made excited noises as they realised they were flying. That made him smile again. It was good that they could still feel wonder. He had reached them in time.

 

Beside him, the green man was not nearly so pleased. It was hard to make out his face as they left the lights of the camp far behind but the way he trembled despite his own thick coat spoke volumes for his state of mind.

“<What is your name?>”

His head whipped round. “<Vincent,>” he said after a pause, “<M-my name's Vincent.>”

“<They did force you into this, didn't they, Vincent?>”

“<They . . . yes. My powers . . . I have to look someone in the eye. They said . . . snipers . . .>”

“<I understand.>”

 

And Erik did. He really did. Nevertheless, he took the 'carpet' down sharply, so fast that Vincent scrabbled for a purchase on the metal. They stopped abruptly a foot above a rough tarmac road. The rain had eased now and the sun was just visible as a red stain across the far eastern sky.

 

Erik stood. “<Get off.>”

“<What?>” Vincent gaped. “<Bu-but –>”

“<Get. Off.>”

He obeyed, nearly tripping over himself to do so. Once down, he turned back to look up at Erik, despair and betrayal fighting on his face. Erik reached down and handed him a small card, which he he took automatically.

“<If you ever need help, call that number.>”

The metal sheet began to rise again.

 

“<Wait!> Vincent shrieked frantically, trying to grab hold of it, “<You're just leaving me here?!>”

“<We are quite some way over the border,>” Erik told him, “<And I think without the threat of snipers, your powers will take you to safety.>”

“<But – but where are you going? Where are you taking them? Why can't I come with you?! You said – you said you came to save me too!>”

“<I did. And I have. I have given you back your future, Vincent. I just don't trust you with theirs.>”

 

Vincent stared up, aghast. Slowly though, Erik's words seemed to sink in and he calmed down. “<I don't even know your name!>” he called up, “<At least tell me who to thank for being free!>”

 

Erik laughed and flourished his arms once more. “<Magneto! Master of magnetism!>”

 

And with that, he and the carpet and the children flew away.


	6. Eany, Meany

People were always asking him what it felt like, to have three brains.

 

Ok, not just that. People seemed to have a hard time getting their heads around everything to do his power. Did it hurt? What was it like when  _they_ were out? And yes, what was it like to have three brains?

 

It was funny really. He didn’t think it was the strangest power in the School. Not next to crystal skin or being able to turn into a ghost. Or being able to  _summon_ ghosts. There was even a boy who could turn himself into a big armoured lizard monster and back again.  _That_ was strange and impressive too. And yes, he supposed they did pester that kid with questions too. But not as much as they did him.

 

The thing was, the honest answer to what was it like to have three brains was that it was . . . like having three brains. Only not quite. It wasn't like the other two were exactly other brains, not really. Not people brains. Not his brains. He could tell them what to do but he did not think for them. He just . . . put thoughts in their minds.

 

Like the Professor with other people. A telepathic link. That's what it was. Sometimes he could see what they were seeing and sometimes he could tell them what to do and that was fun, sometimes, when he could watch people from another room or look at himself or mix it all together. But he didn't know how to describe that beyond saying that he could do it. Could other people describe seeing things or thinking things? It was just like it was.

 

And as for how it worked . . .

 

Japheth sighed and kicked his heels against the wall. He was thirteen years old and his stomach could get out and go find food on its own, twice over. How was he supposed to know how it worked? He just knew that it did. He'd get the biology degree later and work it out then. Or get Hank to explain it, because he'd need a biology degree to understand Hank's explanation.

 

He could see him now, or at least Eany could, through the window up on the corner of the east wing. There was Hank coming back up the big lawn, looking in a mess with a big cart of stuff. Pietro was with him, or at least was blurring over to him every so often. They seemed to be shouting at each other but Eany couldn't hear what because unless it was right next to them, neither of them could hear much of anything.

 

Wanda was following Hank and Pietro with her arms folded. Japheth really hoped it hadn't been a bad argument because that would make dinner really awkward with only the five of them in the mansion. Still, maybe the Professor and Miss Pryde and Mort and Darwin would eat with them tonight and it wouldn't matter so much.

 

Thinking about food made Meany twitchy. He raised his head and cast about, trying to catch the scent of something edible. Japheth paused his game to stroked him reassuringly. There would be things to eat later. No need to worry about it now. Not entirely convinced that this was true, Meany arched and slithered up his arm, which made it a bit harder to go back to playing. They squirmed about around one another trying to find a position that was comfortable for both of them. Yes, it probably didn't help that he was lying on his back with his legs propped at a right angle against the wall, but that had been fine until a certain gut-snake decided it was time for cuddles.

 

Meany nipped at his shoulder. Ok, ok. Cuddling was fine too. Hooray for cuddles. Mollified, Meany wedged himself between Japheth's arm and the bed, then coiled around so he had a good view of the DS's screen. A quiet snort indicated that Japheth was free to continue losing to the latest gym leader.

 

“I'd like to see you play this good. With your no fingers. Hah! There, see?”

It wasn't that impressive. Could a big butterfly chew through solid rock? No it could not.

“Yeah, yeah, you are better than any Pokemon. Even if you don't really know Psychic.”

Not yet.

 

Now Eany had somehow managed to work his way up under the eaves and was worming his way through another of the mansion's attics. Thanks to the two of them exploring, Japheth probably had a better idea of all the holes and hiding places in the house than anyone except maybe the Professor, who had grown up there and had once said he had spent a lot of his childhood looking for secret passages. It would be pretty great if they could surprise him with one that he hadn't found one day.

 

Japheth sneezed. The smell of dust made it hard to concentrate. He was much happier when Eany pushed through a heating grate and back on to one of the landings. The smell of carpet was much easier to tune out.

 

Someone jumping back and shouting in shock, less so.

 

He had a hard time seeing who it was because Eany's first reaction was to whip round and tear off out of there. Somewhere in the spinning view of the corridor, he caught a glimpse of red hair and red glasses though, which meant it must be Scott and the new girl.

 

Japheth frowned to himself. He suspected it had been the new girl – Jean – who had been the one shouting. He hoped she wouldn't be the kind of person who freaked out every time she saw Eany or Meany. Quite a few of the other students did that. Scott didn't though, so he'd probably put her right.

 

Eany hoped so. He hated being screamed at.

 

Come back then. I'll protect you.

 

Eany was not convinced. Besides, it was a long way back down to the dormitory. Wouldn't it be better for Japheth to come up there?

 

Japheth rolled his eyes. That was Eany all over – chasing off and then expecting someone to carry him on the way back. Meany yawned and snapped, muttering thoughts about his twin's laziness. “You can't talk,” Japheth told him, “You've been lying on this bed all day.”

Meany nipped him on the shoulder again. Because he had been too.

“And now this Butterfree is level thirty-one. So there.” Sighing dramatically, he saved and snapped the DS shut. “Fine. I'll go and pick him up. But you're coming too.”

 

In one wild movement, Meany let go and dived under the covers. But Japheth was too quick for him, reaching in and grabbing him out again. All three of his eyes screwed up in an attempt to look pitiful and put upon that no one would buy for a second.

“You just sit there,” Japheth told him, draping him around his neck as he got up, “and keep quiet and don't start eating the curtains again and no one'll get cross with you.”

Or with him. The Professor had made it quite clear that he expected Japheth to keep the two of them under control at all times and it would reflect poorly on him if bits of the furniture got mysteriously eaten in the night.

 

That had led to a lot of careful explanation of why grandfather clocks and old tables were off limits, no matter how good they tasted. Meany still didn't really get _why_ and Japheth was starting to think he liked wood polish a bit too much.

 

Easny seemed to have hidden himself behind a bookcase in one of the history classrooms. He began to make the kind of pleading thoughts he did whenever he got stuck up a tree or caught out in the open in the middle of a basket ball game.

 

Japheth pressed a hand to his face. People always asked him what it was like to have three brains.

 

Most of the time, he suspected it was like having kids.


	7. Echo Chamber

<<ouch-hot-hot-hot-hot!>>

 

<<dum dum da dum dum da dum dum da dum>>

 

<<seriously, flowers? What am I thinking>>

 

<<Go away. Busy. Punching Nazis. WITH SCIENCE.>>

 

<<this sandwich sucks>>

 

<<forgotten what have I forgotten what have I forgotten what have I>>

 

**< Sr><<Forge has built an insulator suit for her. Seems to be working. You were right about her parents. Really relieved that Bobbi's ok, obviously. There was some kind of accident and she'd given them both chilblains. Scared her enough to run to the next town but not really serious. Forge has offered to set them up in Eagle Plaza for a bit while they get adjusted to their little girl being a mutant. They're talking it over now. We'll tag along unless you need us somewhere else. Bobbi's really taken a shine to Summers. He's wiped, by the way. Been flat on his back snoring all afternoon.>><Sr>**

 

<<appreciate your efforts, Dr Braddock, but the Select Committee feels that further funding would be>>

 

<<oh damn not again>>

 

<<crapcrapcrapcrap>>

 

<<dinner tonight?>>

 

<<Oh, aye? Snooping again, Charlie-boy? Can’t be bothered to come down from Mount Olympus and use the phone like a normal human being?>>

 

<< ist unglaublich! Sie sind Metall ! >>

 

<<2 to the power 14 divided by 756 multiplied by the quotient>>

 

**< Ω><<                                      ><Ω>**

 

<cannot understand a word he’s saying>>

 

<< бывают агента красный>>

 

<<the Spectre of Tintagel!>>

 

<Huh?>>

 

<<so hot>>

 

<<should have gone to Cats again>>

 

<<in New York? Don’t make me>>

 

**< Kp><<The fire's out and everyone's safe, Professor. Lots of confusion. I don't ** _**think** _ **anyone recognised us, but we're going to hurry back in case someone smells smoke on us. Mort's complaining about the taste but if he's going to use his tongue to save a cat . . . >><Kp>**

 

**< Mt><<The sodding fleabag left a sodding three-inch gash in my face! Don't tell me I'm not allowed to complain about that!>><Mt>**

 

<<don’t care who your backers are, Trask, this isn’t acceptable – you go through me on this>>

 

<< plus rapide que vous pouvez dire un comportement inapproprié>>

 

<<never gonna make it>>

 

<<keep quiet he won’t find me>>

 

<<101111000110010101011101010101010101011101010101110101010111 – oh, yeah!>>

 

<<new shoes really biting>>

 

**< Om><<The new children are settling in well and Morish is starting to get feeling in his tail back. We're going to need another medicine delivery soon but I think I can come to an arrangement with the local airfield to get around the blockades. Unfortunately there is an unpleasant looking weather front moving in from the east so I will be busy this evening.>><Om>**

 

<<sing my worries away>>

 

<<make it stop, please Lord make it>>

 

<<Well, well, well. What do we have here?>>

 

<force equals mass times acceleration so to get energy we need to>>

 

<<charlie bravo four four nine cleared for approach to facility>>

 

<<you looking at, pal?>>

 

<<bloody-stupid-printer bloody-stupid-paper-jam bloody-stupid-fire bloody-stupid-fingers bloody-stupid->>

 

**< Sc><<Whatever was happening in Prague, it's not got anything t' do with a mutant. Pretty sure of that. Sage hasn't got a peep outta this portable Cerebro all the while we've been here. Lookin' like this was another wild goose chase. Startin' t' think someone's leadin' us a dance here. We'll keep looking but if y' can give us anything t' go on, t'would be greatly appreciated.>><Sc>**

 

<<Dios oh Dios oh Dios oh Dios oh Dios oh>>

 

<<need this more than ever, Senator. If you only knew what these people could>>

 

<<hear this one more time, I'm gonna hurl>>

 

<<yn golygu nid yw'n mynd i hedfan>>

 

<<course he was better in the eighties>>

 

<<it's a stupid name>>

 

<<stupidteststupidideastupidHankWandacouldhavebeenhurtwonderwhatwe'reeatingtonightohcrapneedtoget>>

 

<<don't have to worry, it's perfectly safe and they don't normally>>

 

>>Professor? Is that you?<<

 

<< _this_ is the place where all the freaks live? Looks like just another prep school trying to be >>

 

**< Am><<Professor? Sorry to interrupt. Our new student is here and I you said you wanted to be here to meet him.>><Am>**

 

[[User disconnecting. System entering passive scan mode. New mutant signatures logged: 517. Cerebro shutting down. Unsealing doors]]

 


	8. Coming Out

Warren Worthington III had known for as long as he could remember that his family was important. Or, more accurately, he had known that his father said his family was important and that arguing with his father did not work. Other people's opinions were valid only if they matched up to the word of the great Warren Worthington II. God Himself would have been expected to rethink His position if one of the commandments had contradicted a pronouncement from WWII. God Himself had in fact created the world solely to profit the Worthingtons.

 

Warren did not believe in God and he was fairly sure his father only did because it made Warren's mom happy. The only thing his father prized above the name of the family was his wife's happiness, at least as long as the latter did not interfere with the former. If it ever did, all bets would be off.

 

In his father's world, money and reputation were everything. Reputation brought in money and the money bought a reputation. WWII had made it absolutely and totally clear that Warren was expected to uphold the honour and dignity of the family from the moment he could walk and talk at the same time. When he hit puberty, he got a long lecture about avoiding wild parties, alcohol, girls, drugs, boys and anything else that might have caught the interest of the press. “The sober man is the one left standing in the end,” his father had intoned, as if this was some monumental bit of Solomonic wisdom, “The world trusts a man who can keep control of himself.”

 

Nothing could have turned Warren into a communist – his father's word – faster than being told that a future in capitalism meant using his hand until he was old enough to marry a débutante but his own personal beliefs never seemed to matter in the grand scheme of things. His fate was decided and he would slide towards it on rails manufactured to the finest Worthington Industries standard whether he wanted to or not. Anything else would have contradicted his father's decisions and that was unthinkable.

 

And then  _it_ happened.

 

'It' being about as near to an acknowledgement that 'it' existed as his father ever came.  _It_ had thrown a spanner in all the works because what the hell was going to happen when it was discovered that the heir to the Worthington crown was  _deformed_ ?

 

For a few days, it had even seemed worth it, just to be able to put a dent in dear old dad's plans. But faster than you could say 'rare skin condition,' WWII had rallied. His connections swung into action, securing preferential treatment at school, fitting a harness to keep the problem under wraps, bringing in specialists to look into a more long-term solution – doing everything possible to smooth the road-bump over. Worthington's will would be done, biology be damned.

 

Except here they were, fourteen experts later, and the problem had just gotten bigger. Almost too big to hide. Definitely too big to go away on its own. So big, in fact, that it really did look like the plan might need to be changed.

 

And then Dr Lykos had suggested a colleague of his based in Westchester.

 

So here Warren was in the back of the second-best limo, looking out at a big old ivy-covered mansion that did not really look any different from a dozen other pretentious prep schools.

 

It was the middle of the holidays so everything was quiet and empty. He assumed that was the reason. If the place really was a freak-house, maybe no one came out during the day. There weren't bars on the windows or anything like that, which was probably a good sign.

 

A tall, slender man was waiting for him on the front steps, dressed in loose slacks and a 'Xavier Institute for Higher Learning' polo shirt. He smiled broadly as Warren got out of the car and stepped forward with hand extended. “Armando Muñoz,” he introduced himself as they shook. His handshake was exactly as firm as Warren's. His eyes flicked away. Seeing that the chauffeur was the only other person getting out. “Welcome to Xavier's.”

“Thanks.” Since never volunteering information was one lesson of WWII's that had sunk in over the years, Warren did not add that the reason he was showing up alone was because his father was too busy running a multimillion dollar corporation and his mom was too busy drinking herself stupid in order to forget the fact that her son was a monster.

 

Mr Muñoz took him up the steps and into a wide, airy hallway. “Hope you didn't have too much trouble finding the place. You'd be amazed at how many people miss the turning the first time out. Oh, hey man – just leave those in here,” he added to the chauffeur, who had followed them in with Warren's cases.

The chauffeur – Warren couldn't for the life of him remember the man's name – nodded and did as instructed. “Your father said I should get back as soon as possible, Mr Worthington,” he said apologetically, “so if that's everything, I should get going.”

Warren blinked. “Sure.”

“You want a cup of coffee or something before you go . . . ?” Mr Muñoz asked.

“Ah . . . no. Thanks. I'm good. Mr Worthington.” The chauffeur touched his cap automatically then hurried back out to the limo. Warren tried not to dwell on how quickly he went or the faintly relieved way he slammed the car door.

 

“Right then.” Muñoz grinned again. “You'd better come on through and meet everyone.”

 

“We've got house rules like any school,” he went on as they passed a sweeping double staircase, “No running in the halls, no loud music after lights out, not swinging on the chandeliers or tipping water over the electrified kids. You'll get the full talk later. Term won't start for another month, so you'll have plenty of time to get up to speed. There are a few kids on campus at the moment who can help with that. Hopefully you should meet them in a moment – ah, there we go.”

 

Warren frowned and looked past him, trying to work out what he meant. There wasn't anything immediately ahead of them or any sign of anyone else in the passage. He was just about to ask the obvious question when Muñoz opened a pair of double doors and showed him into a large room full of chairs and couches – a common room, he guessed, with French windows giving on to the lawn outside.

 

Two kids about his age were waiting for them, a skinny boy wearing the thickest, reddest sunglasses Warren had ever seen and a girl with long ginger hair, all muffled up in a green jumper about two sizes too big. The boy stood up as they came in.

“Scott,” Muñoz said, “and Jean, who just started with us here as well. Guys, this is Warren.”

“Please to meet you.” Scott politely offered his hand. His grip was surprisingly strong for someone so thin.

The girl just ducked her head and went back to staring at a cushion.

 

They all stood around in that awkward, no-one-can-think-of-what-to-say-next way. Then, before anyone could actually say anything else, there was a  _whump_ of air and a second boy appeared in the room. He had bright white hair, was dressed in track shorts and an AC/DC shirt, and seemed to be vibrating slightly. “Is this him, then?” He became a blur and was suddenly right in front of Warren. “Hi. Welcome to the School. What can you do? Notanotherenergyblaster, huh? Lastonetookoutthesoccerpitchlastterm. Twice.”

“I . . .” Warren began.

The boy blurred back to the French windows. “Hey, hurry up! Wegottosayhelloto –” And then back into Warren's face. “What did you say your name was?”

 

Mr Muñoz pinched the bridge of his nose. “Warren, this is Pietro.”

“GottocomeandsayhellotoWarren!” Pietro shouted, at the windows again.

“He's . . . fast,” Warren said, not quite believing what he was seeing.

“Fastestthereis.” The white-haired boy threw him a wicked grin and then vanished, appearing draped across one of the couches looking bored. “No one faster.”

 

“What we'd do if there were is luckily a scenario we have yet to face.” The man who said this was stupidly huge, like the biggest quarter back in the world. His proportions were wrong somehow as well. His hands were too big and he was too wide for his height. Or perhaps that was just the way he stooped. And his hair, on his head and on his bare arms, looked . . . blue. “Hank McCoy, senior student and resident genius,” he introduced himself, “Which I say with all modesty, since it's part of my mutation. And this is Wanda Maximoff, who is equally brilliant in her own particular fields.”

He stepped aside to reveal a pretty, lanky girl in a red dress and black leggings. She had a very nice smile. “Hi.”

 

“Hi,” Warren managed. Between Hank's hugeness, Pietro's speed and the way no one else seemed remotely bothered by either of these two things, he was starting to feel . . . he didn't know what. But he wasn't sure he liked it.

 

The door back to the corridor opened and another, much younger kid stuck his head into the room. The rest of him came in slowly, his eyes darting from person to person as he avoided looking at the stranger in their midst. At least he looked normal. Apart from the two goddamn three-eyed snake  _things_ sitting on his shoulders.

 

One of them reared its head and stared straight at Warren, blinked slowly and yawned impossibly wide. The boy stroked it absently, which made it settle down and nuzzle his neck. Warren knew he was gaping and had to force himself to stop. He noticed that Jean was also staring at the boy, which reassured him slightly. At least there was one other person there who thought this wasn't normal.

 

“If you think that's strange, Mr Worthington, you are going to have a very interesting first day of term.”

 

Professor Xavier looked exactly the same as he had when he had visited with Dr Lykos. The same motorised wheelchair, the same immaculately tailored suit, the same knowing smile. He manoeuvred deftly around the kid with the snakes and spread his hands in greeting. “Welcome to the school.”

 

Warren looked down at him and tried to think of a response that wasn't, 'what kind of mad house are you running here?'

“We'll grow on you,” the Professor assured him. He encompassed the room with a wave. “You've already met the rest of the students here, so introductions aren't necessary. In addition to Mr Muñoz and myself, there is Miss Pryde, our computing specialist, and Mr Toynbee who obliges us as grounds-keeper and part-time student councillor. They are currently running some errands in town but they should be back shortly. We do have a larger faculty, of course, who you will meet in due course, but the four of us are . . . full-time, you might say. And yes, Mr Worthington, we are all mutants like yourself. Each extraordinary in our own ways.”

 

He wheeled around and indicated the students in turn. “Pietro's abilities you have already seen. His sister Wanda possesses an equally astonishing power to negate physical laws within a certain radius.” An image appeared in Warren's mind, the girl in red hovering in the air, lights bursting from her hands. “Hank is a physical and mental super-developer. He has strength and agility far above the norm in both thought and action.” Another image, the big guy swinging effortlessly through some sort of obstacle course, as easily as an ape in a jungle. “Jean is a telekinetic, able to move objects about at will.”

 

Warren saw her surrounded by a dancing cloud of cups and saucers, all of them spinning around her in time to the movements of her hands. He then saw the real Jean blush bright scarlet and hunker down even further into her jumper. The Professor's eyes darted to her and he added, “Like myself, she also has some telepathic ability. Scott on the other hand can project beams of energy from his eyes – he is certainly one of my more remarkable students in regards to how his mutation has manifested.” The image that accompanied this was of the thin boy taking his glasses off and the world turning blood red, prompting Warren to look at him with considerably more respect.

 

“Finally,” the Professor finished, “Japheth here possesses a symbiotic link with an autonomous digestive system with which he can bond at will.”

“These guys are my stomach,” the kid translated, affectionately petting the snakes on his shoulders, “And you missed out Darwin, Professor.”

“I did indeed. Shall you explain or shall I, Armando?”

Mr Muñoz shrugged. “I just adapt to survive.”

“Exactly.”

 

The Professor looked back at Warren, still smiling. “As you can see, within the Institute, we have no need to hide our abilities. Any mutant coming here is free to share what they can do, even show off a little bit. That is not to say that you are under an obligation to use your powers or to display them if you do not wish to. But I want to make it clear, Warren, that I did not invite you to join us here so that you could be in some way 'cured'. Despite what you may have been told, your gifts are not an affliction.”

 

Warren glanced around to see the others' reactions to that. Most of them were smiling and nodding too but he couldn't help noticing that Scott's smile was a little bit forced. But Wanda's grin looked genuine and happy, and an instant later her brother was at the Professor's side, daring him with a look. “Sowhatcan _you_ do?”

 

It went against everything his father had ever said. Even the thought of it would have made WWII thunder warnings about the death of the Worthington name. This family will not be turned into a freak-show, he would have said. This is family is too important for that.

 

But Warren's hands found their way to his shirt buttons all the same. Without really thinking about it, he was undoing them, pulling the shirt open and throwing it down. His fingers caught on the straps beneath, caught and tugged at them until they gave way. He looked at the people around him, at the telekinetic and the super-sprinter and the boy with the mobile stomachs – mutants all of them. Mutants like him.

 

And without a second's hesitation, Warren spread his wings.

 


	9. Third Strike

“ _ Cobra Three, do you have eyes on target?” _

“ _ Negative. No sign of unusual activity.” _

“ _ Are we sure this is the right place?” _

“ _ That is affirmative, Cobra Two. We are seeing some serious spikes in activity here.” _

“ _ Understood, control. Will continue our approach. Cobras Four and Five, move to flanking positions.” _

“ _ Roger that.” _

“ Moving.”

 

Morgan slipped into the alleyway alongside the tenement, keeping his gun close his chest. Ever since leaving the van his face had been itching fiercely, right under his goggles. It was distracting enough to make him hope that this mission would be another dud. The sooner it turned out this was another waste of time, the sooner he could get the damn itch checked out. He hoped it wasn't eczema again. Oh God, he'd had enough of that as a kid.

 

“ Cobra Four. East access point clear,” he whispered into his mic, scanning the alley for any signs of recent disturbance. There was nothing obvious but beneath all the trash, he wasn't sure how anyone would have been able to tell. The door didn't look like it had opened for decades. “No activity.”

 

Seconds ticked by as he waited for someone else to speak. Automatically, his fingers tapped the gun's stock randomly, struggling for a tune in the randomness. He pressed his hand flat to make them stop. Stupid twitch.

“ _ This is Cobra Five. I'm seeing movement in the west-facing windows.” _

“ _ Clarify, Cobra Five.” _

“ _ Light passed behind boards, two windows along from the north corner, moving south. Torch, I think. Lost sight of it now.”  _ Haynes sounded excited. She was always the most eager to get out in the field. Always spoiling for a fight. Not especially professional but she usually kept it under control. 

“ _ Copy that.”  _ Control paused, leaving only static. Then: _ “All points, stand by. We are sending in the drone for a closer scan.” _

 

Morgan could not see the drone flying towards the building from where he was but he could just about hear the faint  _ thub-thub _ of its rotors. All the smart tech in the world was not going to build a silent helicopter, no matter how small.

 

The drone circled overhead. He heard it sweep across the alley and continue around the building, bobbing about as it tried to look in on every floor. Its little lens was likely clicking back and forward, up and down in its socket. He'd never liked the way it did that. Twitching. Fidgeting. Always looking. Always searching. Always  _judging_ .

 

That bugged the hell out of him every time he had to go near them. No one ever seemed to switch the damn things off.

 

“ _Scan is positive. I repeat, scan is positive. We have a confirmed hit. Target is on the ground floor and moving east. Cobras One, Two, Three and Six, move in. Enter and detain. Cobras Four and Five, hold position.”_

“ _Copy that. Moving now.”_

“ _Understood.”_

“Copy that.” Morgan trained his gun on the door, a rush of adrenaline sending a thrill through him. This was it.

 

Cobra One's pounding feet and breath hissed across the open channel. There was the muffled crack of the front door being forced open, the crunch of debris underfoot. He imagined them slipping through the building's floor plan, guessing how far they had got.

 

“ _Mutant is six meters ahead of you, Cobra One,”_ Control announced.

Cobra One said nothing back. Just kept advancing. There would be hand signals flashed. They would be spreading out, clearing their lines of fire, scanning for exits. The target would be flanked, hemmed in, trapped.

 

And then . . .

 

And . . . then . . .

 

Morgan frowned. There should have been something. Guns firing or a shout or a scuffle. Something. Instead, there was only Cobra One's breathing. Not even the sounds of movement now. Just breathing, and that becoming strangely shallow – hoarse too, almost –

 

Cobra One sobbed.

 

Morgan had known Martin Lafayette for a couple of years. He was a big, brusque marine, smart and capable with the hard edge of someone who'd seen too much combat. Not chatty, not emotive, not the kind of guy you went to with personal problems.

 

And now he was sobbing into his mic, the loud, wet sobs of a man coming completely undone.

 

Control barked at him, demanding an explanation, an answer, a response of any kind. Someone else started laughing. Cobra Three's distinctive gruff voice rose in a roar of terror. A confused babble of emotions, swamping the channel.

 

Running steps. Somewhere behind it all, Morgan was sure he caught the sound of running footsteps.

 

He flexed his hands, shifting his grip. His face itched fiercer than ever. The radio was all noise as Control tried to get some sense out of the entry team. Cobra Five had the closest thing to a vantage point but could not see anything at all. Cobra One was not responding at all now. Cobra Two was screaming about spiders.

 

The door to the alley shuddered then burst open, swinging halfway before getting solidly stuck again. Morgan's mouth turned to sandpaper. A cloud of dust billowed from the doorway, thrown up by the violent movement. He tightened his trigger finger fractionally, took a deep breath and waited.

 

The girl had hair like smoke and the palest skin he had ever seen. She looked young and old at the same time and ridiculously thin in her grimy dime-store clothes. Through the goggles, he could make out every line on her face, every mark on her bare arms, every scar on her lips. Her eyes were huge and almost as pale as the rest of her. Bright though. Almost . . . glowing. Only it was hard to tell through all the dust.

 

All . . . the . . . dust . . .

 

He must have fired the same instant his vision started to go. Being tensed up, ready to pull the trigger – that saved him. But he did not feel himself doing it. Did not remember it. All he knew was a dizzying moment of blue skies and golden cornfields and then he was back in the alley, standing over the crumpled body of a teenager, staring at the ugly tranq-dart sticking out of her chest.

 

It had been seconds at most. Control was still barking away. Barking at him now, demanding a report on his shot. Unsteadily, he tapped his comm. “T-target down. I repeat, target is down, my position. Ready for collection.”

“ _Copy that, Cobra Four.”_ Control sounded immensely relieved. _“Collection crew to Cobra Four's position immediately. Clean-up crew, enter the house and recover entry team. All points, prepare for extraction.”_

 

Morgan ripped the goggles from his face and scratched frantically at his cheek, rough gloves leaving it burning. Still, it was almost a relief. Almost. He breathed out and sagged a bit.

 

With a clatter of rotors, the drone dropped out of the sky right above him, lens twitching like always. He flinched away but it bobbed past him, uncaring. It only had eyes for the girl, he supposed. He could understand that, strangely. Even those weird eyes shut, even unconscious, it was hard to look away.

 

She looked even younger now, even paler. The dust, settled in the dirt now, glinted and glittered around her. And this was his life now, Morgan thought as feet pounded towards them. This was his job. Chasing down children who breathed sunshine and stardust.

 

It really was a hell of a thing.


	10. Staff Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good gracious me - is this a new chapter? I do believe it is! A combination of recent movie releases I refuse to see on principal and the basic state of the world at the moment has got me writing this again. I'll try and update once a week until I run through my chapter buffer again, so do stay tuned.

“Well, he's going to make the new term interesting,” Kate mused, watching the new arrival wheel in the sky outside to the cheers of the other students.

“You think so?”

She turned from the window. “Tall, good looking, needs to take his shirt off to use his power – and his power is  _wings_ ? Yeah, I think he's going to cause a stir.”

The Professor raised an eyebrow. “A good point. But I'm sure we can tailor some clothes to spare Warren's modesty.”

“What modesty?” Mort wondered, taking a look out the window for himself. He snorted and swigged his tea. “Looks to me like the he’s just fine showin’ off.” 

“For the moment. I suspect once this initial rush of freedom has worn off, it may be a different matter.” The Professor stroked his chin. “He has spent the last few years being told he is afflicted, not gifted. The marks that leaves are often slow to fade.”

Eyes drifting out of focus, Mort tilted his head in agreement. “True.”

“So are his wings really made of metal?” Darwin wondered aloud, figuring it would be smart to divert the conversation away from painful memories.

“I'm really not sure. It's certainly very resilient. He can shed individual feathers but the wings as a whole are extremely tough.” The Professor's expression darkened. “Every attempt to cut them failed and what damage was inflicted always healed up.”

Kate screwed up her face. “I'm guessing that wasn't very pleasant for him.”

“No.”

“The span of them . . .” Mort was looking outside again. “Can't be big enough to let him fly like that. And he's hardly flapping 'em. Just seems to be able to glide.”

“Interesting isn't it? I'm hoping that his physical will give us a little more insight into how he does it.”

“If it doesn't, just point Hank at him and let him work it out,” Darwin suggested with a grin.

“Hn. Looks like he already wants to get 'im down in't lab.”

Crossing over, Darwin peered out to see what Mort meant. And yeah, there was Hank making big gestures as he bounded around following Warren's flight. “Oh yeah. Man, he's got a dozen theories already hasn't he?”

“Ahem. Speaking of Hank.” With a slightly embarrassed cough, the Professor wheeled out from behind his desk. “I'm rather afraid that one of the apple trees has suffered some damage.”

“Oh hell, what's the mad scientist done this time?” Mort exclaimed, nearly spilling what was left of his tea.

“An experiment with Wanda's powers went slightly awry. I haven't been down to check the damage myself yet.”

“Urgh. I'll check it in't morning.”

“Yeah, cos you two need some rest.” Darwin lifted his Coke bottle in salute. “Nice job at that fire, so I'm told.”

Rolling his eyes, Mort drained his cup. “Pryde tried hard but didn't actually give anyone a heart-attack, so there was that.”

Kate poked him. “We did good. You're not allowed to be grumpy about us saving people's lives.”

“Just you watch me.”

“You did very well,” the Professor told them with a smile, “Although I think events like these indicate that carrying your equipment at all times might be a good idea.”

A chorus of groans went up from the three of them. “Not exactly easy day-wear are they?” Mort grumbled.

“I dunno,” Kate pondered, “Nice big belt, lots of pouches – at least you'd have somewhere to keep your keys when you go clubbing.”

“Military butch in't my scene, Pryde. And I'm thinking it'll put a right crease in Mr Darwin's Sunday best.”

“Hey I don't mind. Suit and utility belt – I can rock that.”

“You know what this brings us back to?” Kate crossed her arms. “Should have gone with my designs in the first place. I always said we needed something that could go with something other than body armour.”

“Just a shame that something was leg warmers and disco music, eh, Pryde?”

“Hey, I resent that. No way was it that dated.”

The Professor held up a hand. “All right then, motion defeated. But nobody come crying to me when they're stuck in a fire without a breathing mask.”

Darwin leaned comfortably against the window ledge and cleared his throat. “So, ah, speaking of new students, are we expecting anyone else to show up before term starts?”

“I don't believe so. There are a few signals I'd like to investigate, as ever, but no one I think it would be reasonable to bring to the Institute just yet. Why do you ask? Beyond wanting to be prepared, that is.”

“I'm just wondering how much we're going to tell Jean and Warren.”

Kate raised an eyebrow. “Good point, that. Are we planning on giving them the whole save-the-world recruitment speech? Because between Pietro, Hank and Scott, we have the three lousiest secret keepers this side of Peter Pettigew.”

“Harry Potter references? Really?” Mort rolled his eyes.

“A reference you just _got_. So, hah! Still, the point stands. What do you say, Professor? Are we going to bring them into the inner circle?”

“I hope we cannot be described in such an elitist manner,” the Professor commented wryly, “But it is a good point. I think it might be best to ease them in gently to the more clandestine activities. There is certainly no harm in introducing them to our out-reach programmes as soon as possible though. I think they could both benefit from a greater sense of community.”

“Sounds good to me,” Darwin agreed, “You want me to give 'em the big lecture tomorrow morning?”

“Thank you for offer, Armando, but I'd actually like to do it myself. I always enjoy waxing lyrical about all the good we do.”

“No, really? We always thought you hated it and really had to force y'self to give an hour-long inspiring speech at the start of every term. Ow,” Mort added flatly as Kate whapped him on the shoulder.

“Well, regardless, I'd be grateful if we can restrict any mentions of the X-Men for the moment.”

“I still think that's not going to last the week before someone –” Kate fake coughed around the word 'Pietro'. “– blurts out something about the stealth jet hidden under the basketball court. And that's assuming we don't have to _use it_.”

“Be that as it may, let's at least try to make the attempt. For Jean and Warren's sakes, if nothing else. Besides, I think we might all hope that a young person's first introduction to our world won't be through having the Blackbird thunder past their window at one o'clock in the morning.”

Lifting his Coke again, Darwin grinned. “I'll drink to that.”


	11. To Be Seen

The school was not, Jean was starting to think, the worst place in the world.

Not that she'd been expecting it to be – not really –

Well, not at all. It was just –

Hell was other people, someone had once said. Sartre, in fact, and he had been talking about recognising yourself as the object of someone else's gaze, about realising that how other people looked at you was as much a part of 'you' as your own consciousness. You were not just a mind alone, at the centre of the universe and that –

Well, that affected everything about you.

Telepathy made it very, very easy to see yourself as something that was seen. Even when you weren't focusing on it, there was a constant background hum of other minds, observing, assessing, judging. They ate in at the sides of your mind, the way the world saw you distorting the way you saw the world. Some days, it was like going through life in a hall of distorting mirrors, only you didn't get to dismiss the reflections because they really were how other people saw you. And that really could be hell.

So far, the school was really . . . not that bad. It helped, she supposed, that it was so empty. With only seven students and four teachers there, including her and the Professor, it was quiet enough that she didn't have to worry about headaches. And the impressions she picked up from everyone were –

Not that bad either.

The Professor was the Professor and his mind was so clear and controlled that she could focus entirely on what he was saying.

Darwin – and that was how he thought of himself, not  Armando – was nice and genuine and oddly fluid, as if he were ever so slightly becoming a new person for everyone he talked to, so it was a little hard to know what he thought of her really.

Miss Pryde was nice too, but usually a little distracted and thinking about a dozen different things all at once. She seemed to have decided that Jean was 'one of the odd ones', which was not a bad thing in her mind at least, because she thought of herself like that too –

Jean never meant to pry but it was hard not to follow the way thoughts tumbled through people's minds. She got caught up in the way memories sparked and spun off in strange directions. Anyway –

Mr Toynbee was . . . pleasant? Weirdly? He had skin that looked green when it caught the light and oddly bulging eyes and generally acted very grumpy but behind that . . . he liked people. Or he wanted to. He gave everyone the benefit of the doubt and didn't decide his opinions quickly.

Then there were the other students –

Pietro's thoughts came like bullets from a machine gun, so fast she couldn't really make any sense of them.

Wanda saw Jean as someone in the same boat as her, gifted with more power than she could control. That scared her a little but the fear just made her determined to help if possible.

Hank was fascinated by the telekinesis and every time he saw it, his mind was abuzz with theories on how it might be working.

Japheth did not know what to make of her and his thoughts were all muddled up with the sensory impressions from his two worm-stomachs, who mainly wondered if she would taste nice, which she knew from Japheth's thoughts, not theirs, because the worms themselves were just static to her.

Warren thought she was mousey and was a little freaked out by her powers. He was more interested in getting to know Wanda anyway, his intentions blazing out like a neon sign every time he saw her.

And Scott –

Like Wanda, Scott saw her as someone in the same situation as he was, with abilities that could be immensely destructive if they weren't careful. Jean thought she'd probably scared him a bit that first day, when he telekinesis had flared up. But he wanted to help. To be supportive, if he could. He thought it was something he should do. She got the impression Scott did a lot of things because he thought he should, because he thought it was the right thing to do.

She liked that. It made her wonder if she could help him back.

She wondered that about all of them. The teachers were all so sincere about wanting to help mutants with their abilities and that rubbed off on the students. She could see it in little things they did, little considerations they made for each other's powers, little ways they used those powers to make one another's lives easier. In four years, ever since she'd first started rattling the things around her with her mind, she hadn't really considered the possibility of using her abilities on a day-to-day, normal life kind of level. When she had to focus so much to pick out individual objects from the pressure of all the mass around her, it was hard to imagine helping people so carefully with heavy loads the way Hank did or catching knocked-over mugs like Wanda could.

But maybe that was something she could aim for. That kind of precision. That kind of human-scale interaction, where she could catch the falling coffee-cups of the world without lifting the whole room up with them.

It wasn't a bad goal, she thought.

And the school . . . the school might just be exactly where she needed to be to achieve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I really did not know the context of the 'hell is other people' until I looked it up for this. I'm very glad I did because it let me put a completely different spin on this chapter than I'd intended, and a better one at that.  
> * Do feel free to comment with any mundane uses of superpowers that come to mind . . .


	12. Counselling #1

“That kid is a menace,” Mort concluded, clambering down from the tree.

“Oh, come on. It's not that bad.” Darwin waved at the burnt grass, wood chips and blackened leaves. “Compared to some of the stunts Hank's pulled, this is really small potatoes.”

Mort looked at him sidelong, trying to convey – as the person who usually had to clean it up – the depth of his doubt that  _any_ damage Hank McCoy inflicted on the Institute's grounds could be called 'small potatoes'. He grunted. “I suppose he didn't burn it down. Or melt it.”

“Right! It's still standing, it's not going to die and we can probably use the bits that broke off for firewood.”

Darwin kicked at the biggest fragment of branch, which was about the size of his fist. “OK, kindling.” He beamed, showing off all those perfect teeth of his. “Basically, it could have been a lot worse. You just like grumping about Hank. Which is why you're not blaming Wanda for any of this.”

“Wanda's a sweet kid who's happy to agree t' anything if it means she might get a better grip on what she can do.” Grabbing the rake he had lugged over from the tool shed, Mort set to gathering the bits and pieces together.

He gradually became aware that Darwin was watching him with an 'I'm-trying-not-to-laugh' face and retaliated with a sourly questioning look. “Sorry,” the lad said around a smile, “What d'you want me to do?”

“Hold that sack open.” Mort chucked the rake aside and started lifting handfuls from the pile he'd just made. Between them, they got it all cleared into the sack in under a minute and Mort dusted off his gardening gloves with satisfaction. “Right then. I'll get this down to the compost . . . and you can stop turning green, right now.”

Startled, Darwin looked down at his bare arms, which had been steadily getting slick and green-tinged since they'd first come out to examine the tree. “Damn. Didn't even notice.”

“What, my natural animal magnetism too distracting all of a sudden?”

“Yeah, I guess that's it,” he agreed distractedly, a frown of concentration replacing his usual good-humour. Slowly but surely, his skin reverted back to its normal tone, the slight hint of scaliness evaporating.

Mort watched thoughtfully, bundling the sack up and slinging it over his shoulder. He bent down, scooped up the rake and handed it to over. “Com'on. Let's walk.”

They tramped across the lawn towards the tool sheds at an even pace, the compost sack knocking rhythmically against Mort's back while Darwin carried the rake balanced against his shoulder. The grounds smelt of late-summer rolling in over an early-morning chill. It had been getting warmer and warmer over the past few days, which had probably contributed to yesterday's fire. Frankly, it made Mort wish autumn would hurry up and get here so they could get a bit more moisture in the air. Dry heat was murder on his skin.

“S'not happened for a while, has it?” he said when it was clear Darwin wasn't going to say something without prompting, “You shifting to match people you're talking to.”

“Not for a while, no.”

“Anything on your mind?”

“Don't think so. Didn't sleep great last night.”

“Not like you.”

“Hey, even I get nightmares sometimes.”

“Nightmares?”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Yeah. Think so. Can't remember any of them.”

“S' how it goes. Bit of a bugger if it gets at y' control, though.”

Darwin just shrugged.

Well, it would have been an uncomfortable conversation, right? Better for everyone's state of mind to just let it slide, yeah?

Mort reached over and deliberately thumped Darwin's shoulder. The bare skin under his fist rippled into something a little like rhino hide. “Ow?” Darwin asked incredulously.

“Stop being socially adaptable and tell me what's wrong.”

He sighed and nodded, eyes losing focus as he turned his mind inward, trying to push past the part of his powers that really would edit his memories if that would help him fit in. “I think . . . I think I was dreaming about Ahmet.”

“Abdol Ahmet?”

“Yeah.”

“Seeing why that might leave you a bit stressed.”

“Yeah, but . . . it wasn't quite like that.” A deep frown crinkled Darwin's brow something fierce. “He was in agony.”

“That seems less like a nightmare for you,” Mort pointed out as they got to the sheds. “What with everything he put you though.”

“Maybe. But it wasn't . . . he was in agony. I mean that. You ever seen someone actually in so much pain they can't bear it . . . ?”

“Yes.” Mort swung the sack from his shoulder and started emptying it into one of the bins. “Leaving aside the fact you have every reason t' be having bad dreams about the guy and going straight f' the sci-fi explanation, you think maybe this has something to do with him . . . you know . . . with what happened.” He shaped his mouth around the words with exaggerated care. “Maybe it left you with a connection?”

“Can I be the first to say I really, really, _really_ hope not?” Leaning on the rake, Darwin clicked his neck. “And if it did, why would it just show up now? It's been over a decade. Even assuming Ahmet's still alive . . .”

“All right, fair point. Maybe you're just flaking out on us.”

“Thanks.”

Mort shook the last stubborn leaves from the sack then turned around. “Mate, you can live through anything up to an including getting a face-full of nuclear star-fire. You still  _live_ through it. You going to tell me that doesn't leave you with some bad memories?”

“Not gonna deny it.”

“Those are going to find their way into your dreams. Trust me. It's nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I know. I'm not ashamed of it.”

“It's just preying on your mind.”

“A . . . OK, a bit, yeah.”

“Well I hate t' tell you this, lad, but it really is all in your head. I'm not too hot on dream interpretation but I can tell y' fer a fact that bottling it all up isn't going to do you no good at all, however you adapt t' it.”

“Isn't that pretty much mental health: one oh one level advice?”

“Y'd be amazed how often people ignore it. You start getting things weighing on your mind, you talk to someone about them, all right? No adapting around it because that'll make you fit in better. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.”

“Heh.” Extending one long arm, Darwin punched Mort's shoulder. “Thanks.”

“My door is always open. Sometimes I'm even in the room. Though really, go to someone else for the dream interpretation. No good at that, at all.” With the sack safely folded up into a neat square, Mort started fishing around inside his pockets for the tool shed keys. “And you know what? I just realised I should've made Hank clear all that up.” That brought back the 'trying-not-to-laugh face. “What?”

“You know why you didn't?” 

“Astonish me.”

“You're too much a believer in 'if you want a job doing properly, do it yourself'.”

Mort snorted, the keys clinking in his hand, and stuck his tongue out. The tip wrapped around the shed door handle and yanked it open. “So much for that, eh? Forgot to lock up.”

“Even you're not perfect.”

“Don't I know it. Hand over the rake, beanpole.”

Grinning again, Darwin did as he was told. “What else is on the agenda today?”

“Fixing one of the sinks in the girl's dorms now I've got the parts and jet maintenance. But f' God's sake, let's have a brew first.”

“I'll go put the kettle on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Like any true Yorkshire man, Mort requires a constant stream of tea to be productive.  
> * This is all absolutely not set up. Absolutely not.


End file.
